LOOK YOU
~
a rolling scrapbook of life, the universe and
nearly everything...ARCHIVE 2014 -
MAY

To view previousPOSTCARDS FROM
MY SQUARE MILE
click... SmileUpdated: 11/08/2013
ALSO...
for a taste of life on the wild side of my square mile, click...
400 Smiles A Day
Updated: 08/06/2013

Design:
Yosida

♫♫♫TO SELFIt seems that
the artist Leonardo da Vinci kept a notebook, Notes to Self,
a list of “things to do today”: buy paper; charcoal; chalk ...
describe tongue of woodpecker and jaw of crocodile...
These are my Notes to Self, a daily record of
the things that make me smile and which brighten up my day no
end, whether read in a newspaper, seen on TV, heard on the
radio, told in the pub, spotted in the supermarket, a good joke,
a great story, a funny cartoon, a film clip, an eye-catching
picture, a memorable song, something startling that nevertheless generates a spontaneous smile, curiosities spotted
along my walks through the Towy Valley...
This is a snapshot of life beyond the blue horizon... ...and
everyday a doolally smile of the day
PS:
The shortest distance between two people is a smile ...
Contact Me

Saturday, May 31st, 2014

You only park this way once
Spotted outside St Stephen’s Lutheran
Church in Madison, Wisconsin

FIRST UP, a curious tale, as told by
columnist Rod Liddle:

Keep fingers out of fire

Robert Gladwin, 20, was strolling past his local church in Attleborough,
Norfolk, when he noticed a poster to which he took exception: “If you
think there is no God ― you’d better be right!!”

Beneath those words was a
photograph of some flames.

Gladwin did what I’m certain you
or I would do if we were to read something with which we disagreed ― he
immediately rang the police to get it removed. And the rozers turned up
at the Baptist church, logged the matter as a “hate crime” and the
poster was taken down.

Speaking to the press after the
church had been raided, Gladwin explained that when he had seen the
poster he felt “astounded”.

Just imagine how astounded he will
be one day, 70-odd years from now. Gobsmacked, I would reckon. Try
calling the police then, mate.

It is indeed a curious tale. But I am hugely amused at the image of
Robert Gladwin’s coffin, 70-odd years from now, disappearing into the furnace down at the
crematorium. Mate.

The controversy has echoes of a freedom of
speech debate sparked in January 2009, after the British Humanist
Association launched an anti-religion advertising campaign on London
buses.

The campaign was made up of posters
disputing the existence of God, which read: “There’s probably no God.
Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.” (Spoilt, in my humble opinion,
by that “probably”
word.)

Whatever, the campaign was originally
intended for buses in London, but the appeal spread across the country
because it became so popular.

Back with the fire, I particularly enjoyed this
online comment in response to the sensitive young Robert Gladwin...

Boethius: I wonder
what the response of such individuals would have been to the following
church signs ― “Where will you be sitting in eternity? Smoking or
non-smoking?” ― “Forgive your enemies - it messes with their heads” ―
“If you can’t stand the heat, better make plans to avoid it”.

Very good. I particularly like the forgiveness one.

Mind you, we now live in the world
of the electronic cigarette (e-cig or e-cigarette) ― also known as a
personal vaporizer (VP) or electronic nicotine delivery system (ENDS -
does that mean the ends justify the means, especially following sex?) ― I kid
you not about those e-cig terms, every day a day at school hereabouts.

Anyway, I guess the first church sign
mentioned by Boethius should
now read ― “Where will you be sitting in eternity? Smoking, non-smoking or
personal vaporizer?”

Finally, a delightful tale of lateral thinking which even God, the Devil
― oh, and Robert Gladwin ― would be
proud of:

Least said, soonest mended

When pupils at a Sussex school were
asked to write in less than 50 words what they should do to encourage
motorists to show more consideration for others, one exceedingly bright
12-year-old came up with a perfect answer ― in just four words:

“Voting for UKIP is like picking the best of four ugly girls”: Footballer
Joey Barton apologises for “offensive” remarks on Question Time
as viewers of BBC show complain it has hit a “new low”

I did not see the programme but it
seems the Queens Park Rangers (QPR) midfielder Joey Barton compared
voting UKIP to picking up ugly girls on a boozy night out with the lads.

UKIP MEP for the north west, Louise
Bours, at whom the remark was directed, said the comment was
“offensive”.

Indeed ― and unsurprisingly ―
viewers complained and accused the BBC of taking Question Time to a “new
low”. [Hm. How low can you go? Could the BBC be run by a group of
frustrated limbo dancers? Whatever...]

Joey Barton admitted nerves ― he’d much
prefer to play in front of an 87,000 crowd “any day of the week”, thank
you very much ― and he duly apologised on air for the remark.

Now I know nothing of this
fellow Barton, so I sent Ivor the Search Engine out on a trawl.

Well, well, well...

Drop the Dead Barton

DECEMBER 2004:
Barton stubs lit cigar in the eye of young team-mate Jamie Tandy during
a Manchester City Christmas party. Fined six weeks’ wages by the club.
Forced to pay four weeks’ salary ― approximately £60,000 ― immediately,
with a further two weeks suspended for a year. Tandy later sued Barton,
winning £65,000 in damages.

JULY 2005: Involved in altercation with a 15-year-old Everton fan
at City’s team hotel in Bangkok during a pre-season tour. Fined eight
weeks’ wages by City after being found guilty of gross misconduct.

SEPTEMBER 2006: Drops his shorts in the direction of Everton fans
following City’s 1-1 draw at Goodison Park.

MAY 2007: Suspended by City after training-ground altercation
with Ousmane Dabo, which leaves his team-mate needing hospital
treatment. Charged with assault, and on 1 July 2008 receives a
four-month suspended jail sentence. Also punished by FA with a 12-match
ban ― six matches of which are suspended ― and a £25,000 fine.

DECEMBER 2007: After ten pints and five bottles of beer arrested
in Liverpool city centre after a late-night incident and later charged
with common assault and affray. Caught on CCTV knocking his unnamed
victim to the ground, before straddling him and punching the man up to
20 times.
At the time of the assault Barton was on bail for the
attack on Ousmane Dabo.

MAY 2008: Jailed for six months and sent to Strangeways Prison after
admitting common assault and affray.

NOVEMBER 2010: Playing for Newcastle United he punches Blackburn
winger Morten Gamst Pedersen during a 2-1 defeat at St James’ Park.

MAY 2012: Now
playing for QPR, he is sent off for elbowing Carlos Tevez on the final
day of the season at Manchester City. Knees Sergio Aguero, sending the
striker to the ground, and attempts to head-butt Vincent Kompany before
being ushered off the field.

In light of criticism he launched an expletive-laden Twitter attack on
Alan Shearer before turning on Match of the Day presenter Gary Lineker,
saying: “Back under your stone you odious little toad with your vast
closet of skeletons.”

[I actually remember that quote ―
it made my smile of the day, and all down to Lineker’s splendidly amusing
response: “I had a good look in my closet ― only found a few packets of
crisps.”]

MAY 2014: Days after
winning promotion back to the Premier League with QPR, appears on
BBC’s Question Time to ‘mixed reviews’ after clearly attempting to punch way
above his weight, so to speak.

All the above make
the following words of wisdom he has posted on Twitter rather memorable...

Tweetie Pie Corner

Joey on
violence

“Violence always comes from a
place of misunderstanding and low to zero self-worth, well mine did
anyway.”

Is that an excuse for violence
rather than tackling it ― I nearly said ‘tackling it head on’?

Joey on inner peace

Quote via the Dalai Lama: “To control
negative physical and verbal actions, it is necessary to get at their
root, the mind, and tame it.”

Ah yes, root canal treatment of the
brain. Sounds about right.

But back with his “Voting for UKIP is like picking the best of four ugly
girls”.

I remember Old Shaggy down at the
Crazy Horsepower once telling me: “Always go for the least handsome girl
in the room.” Note: the word “ugly” did not exist in his vocabulary.
“They are far and away the best in bed. And boy o boy, they are
grateful as hell.”

So c’mon, Joey, come back onside,
we men of the world know you’re just dying to climb into bed with UKIP’s
Louise Bours ― whether it be literally or figuratively is none of my
concern.

Which leaves us all wondering what on earth possessed the BBC to invite
someone with such a well-documented history of violence and online
trollery onto Question Time in the first place?

Ah well, another paragraph added to
the BBC’s exceedingly long suicide note.

Talking of which, the other
BBC-related headline today was this:

Nation’s morning thrown into chaos when BBC Radio 4 accidentally misses
the shipping forecast and plays World Service instead

It seems that the much celebrated and
trusted weather service ― as much part of the British psyche as
bluebells and fish and chips ― failed to air at 5.20am as expected after
a “technical error”.

Listeners took to Twitter to
express their confusion and irritation over the cock-up.

One user tweeted this about not
broadcasting the shipping forecast: “Isn’t that the sign of impending
nuclear Armageddon?”

Oh dear, the BBC blamed a handy
“technical error” for the delay in following the schedule, but the smart
money says that someone simply forgot to flick a switch.

Yet another paragraph added to that
ever-lengthening suicide note...

Thursday, May 29th
“Lies, damned lies and statistics”Illustration by Peter Newell from
COSMOPOLITAN, August 1898

Stretching the truth

A FEATURE of Alex Lester’s exceedingly-early-morning wireless show on
Radio 2 is an
entertaining diversion called Ballistic Statistics.

It takes its inspiration from what
many think of as Mark Twain’s famous quotation.

However, this from Mark Twain’s Own Autobiography:
The Chapters from the North American Review:

Figures often beguile me,
particularly when I have the arranging of them myself; in which case the
remark attributed to Disraeli would often apply with justice and force:
“There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics.”

The thing is, Ivor the Search Engine informs me that Twain’s
Autobiography attribution of the remark to Disraeli is generally not
accepted. Evidence is now available to conclude that the phrase
originally appeared previously, in 1895, in an article by a Leonard H.
Courtney. So Disraeli is not the source.

Certainly,
it is clear that misuse of statistics was complained about well before 1895.

The original author (or speaker) of the
memorable quote is still uncertain, but if it originated with any one
well-known figure, the most likely candidate is Sir Charles Dilke
(1843-1911), English Liberal and Radical politician, one of the rare
breed known as radical imperialists. (Radical imperialists? How intriguing.)

What is interesting, though, when the quote
first appeared in print it looked like this: “lies, d- - - -d lies and
statistics.”

“Damned” being the equivalent of today’s
f-word, clearly.

Indeed, sometimes the words would be changed
to avoid any embarrassment to the reader: “There are three degrees of
falsehood: the first is a fib, the second is a lie, and then come
statistics.”

Actually, I quite like that one. In modern
terms we would describe lies in greyscale, for example...

white lie
(relatively innocent: “No, your bum does not look like the size of a
small country in that dress!”)

99% of people will turn down the radio in their
vehicle if they smell burning

That last one is the sort of statistic that,
curiously, makes sense, in its own bizarre little way. As does this one, heard
this very morning, and suggested by a James Ingleby:

Art imitates life; and life imitates art. So 100%
of all the people who you think you know are in fact, forgeries

Smashing. Also, a little while back I spotted this online comment:

Did you hear about the recent survey on obesity in
the UK?
It appears that 2 out of
every 3 Brits are actually 1 person ...
And 4 out of 5 said that
2 out of 3 are right but 1 in 10 said no...

Wednesday, May 28th

Free, at last

TODAY is Tax Freedom
Day, the first day of the year in which Britain as a nation
has theoretically earned enough income to fund its annual tax burden ―
and we all start working for ourselves.

It apparently fell on the 30th of
May last year, so the Chancellor should be congratulated for liberating
taxpayers two days earlier in 2014.

Well, every little bit helps. But it
did prompt this online
comment...

JohnHB: Tax Freedom
Day ― hear, hear!
As the great Gladstone (1809-1898) said: “Let the money fructify in the
hands of the people.”

Fructify? I’m not sure about the
Bible, but that’s definitely not a word you hear in the Crazy Horsepower
Saloon. So:

Fructify1) to bear or cause to bear fruit. 2) to make or become fruitful.
“They were sacrificed in order that their blood might fructify the
crops.”

And then this memorably clever response to
JohnHB’s Gladstone quote...

Steve The Beard:
I’m fructify want to pay any more tax to this government!

How witty.

Okay, a letter in The Daily
Telegraph:

Empty promise

SIR – When asking my mother what
was for dinner, she would reply: “Air pie with the crust off.”Shelagh Parry, Farnham, Surrey

How funny, my mother would sometimes respond, in a mixture of Welsh and
English: “Cwpaned o de a plâted o bugger all.” A cup of tea and a plate
of bugger all.

Shades of Under Milk Wood
and the village of Llareggub ― as read backwards.

You say plague, I say
pride

Remember this letter and its memorably named author, as spotted in
The Daily Telegraph?

Fowl plague

SIR – Our village has been
plagued by three rogue peacocks since February.
Short of shooting them, can anyone suggest a way to get
rid of them? Marysia
Pudlo-Debef,
White Colne, Essex

Well, here’s a view from the other
side of the fence:

Pride in peacocks

SIR – We also live
in White Colne but have not been “plagued” by “rogue” peacocks. The
three that visit our garden and roost close to our bedroom window are
very friendly.
Admittedly, they do tend to chat among themselves in
the early hours, but it is a small price to pay for the company of such
beautiful creatures. R S Skinner,
White Colne, Essex

Take a Pecok, breke his necke, and
kutte his throte. And fle him, the skyn and the ffethurs togidre, and
the hede still to the skyn of the necke. And kepe the skyn and the
ffethurs hole togiders.
Drawe him as an hen. And kepe the bone to the necke
hole, and roste him. And set the bone of the necke aboue the broche, as
he was wonte to sitte a-lyve. And abowe the legges to the body, as he
was wonte to sitte a-lyve.
And whan he is rosted ynowe, take him of. And lete him
kele; and then wynde the skyn wit the ffethurs and the taile abought the
body. And serue him forthe as he were a-live; or elle pull him dry. And
roste him, and serue him as thou doest a henne.

Which in turn drew this witty addendum...

One Last Try:
Extract from updated 2014 Version...

Take a Pecok, breke his necke, and
kutte his throte, sae preyers in obscure forien dialect oversiad Pecok
... etc

Yesterday, I
mentioned the phrase “the elephant in the room”, a metaphorical idiom
for an obvious truth.

Well blow me, today I read this
letter, compliments of The Times:

Legal drugs

Sir, Hugo Rifkind writes about “legalising drugs” but misses the
elephant in the room ― alcohol. About 2 million people in the UK are
chronically addicted to it at this very moment. The government seems to be in
denial about this. The NHS certainly is, and has almost no programme or
policy for helping any of this enormous number of drug addicts to
recover from its devastating affects.
What is the point of legalising more drugs when
virtually no effort is being made to help those addicted to the biggest
one?HILTON SEELY, London W14

Sadly, it’s not all smiles out there. And Hilton Seely
makes a worthy point of order.

Tuesday, May 27th

And you are?

ALEX Lester on his very early
morning wireless show was discussing with his listener what makes the
perfect “universal reassurance slogan”.

For example, what would be the
defining slogan on your letterhead or stationery. Also, if you had a
badge, what would best describe you to the world at large.

And that’s where the lapel badge at
the top comes in. A trucker out on his daily grind suggested the above
slogan ― which I think could best be described as a double-axeled
entendre. Naughty but clever.

A nurse (I think) suggested this as
a hospital badge: “Be nice to your nurse ― they stop the doctors from
killing you” ― which did make me smile.

Actually, there’s a well known
medical adage: “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” Now that would look good on a
lapel badge.

Incidentally, I wonder if a doctor
has ever uttered that line? When I next come face to face with a doctor,
either socially or otherwise, I must make discreet enquiries.

Also, a working baker advised Alex
that the slogan he actually uses in his business is this: “If it looks
nice, people will buy it ... and if it tastes nice, people will buy it
again”.

Which is rather good.

By a coincidence, today I read this
wonderful little newspaper piece, compliments of Daniel Finkelstein’s Notebook in The Times...

Dish of the day

Leaving an inspiring meeting with Holocaust survivors, I failed to
remove my name badge, thus having to engage in a long discussion with
the cashier at a shop on why I was Lord Finkelstein and what the prime
minister’s Holocaust Commission was.

It reminded me of my father’s
experience when he had gone to a party where, as a toe-curling
ice-breaker, you were given a badge reading, for instance, “Shepherd’s”
and then had to find the person wearing a badge that said “Pie”.

My father had to look for
“Lancashire” and, once he had located the lady in question, he put the
badge in his pocket.

A couple of days later at a
professional conference, wearing what he thought was his university name
tag, he kept getting odd looks.

He realised he had been walking
around all morning with the word “Hotpot” on his lapel.

How totally wonderful. 10/10. And if that didn’t raise a laugh, well,
I’d see about it.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking all day
what would be an attention-grabbing message to write on a lapel badge.
What would best describe your attitude to life, the universe and
everything.

There’s a marvellous expression,
“the elephant in the room”, a metaphorical idiom for an obvious truth, a
very large issue, something that everyone is acutely aware of, but
nobody wants to discuss.

Perhaps a sore spot on the bum of
the nation; perhaps something politically incorrect; perhaps Nigel
Farage in the lead-up to the European elections...

So what should be on the
badge? Well, it would have to be something that people would instantly
notice and react to ― with a smile, hopefully. The perfect antidote to
“the elephant in the room”:

After those initial few seconds,
when everyone would be instantly charmed and seduced, it would then be
up to you to carry it off.

And who knows, a pretty
girl/handsome fella, might well ask you to perform your favourite trick
― and hopefully throw you a fish after. Well, it beats sharing a
cigarette (so I’m told).

Mind you, I know plenty of people
who should have on their badge “The shark in the room” ― or “the polecat”, or “the
sparrow hawk”, or “the grey squirrel”, or “the roundabout”...

Monday, May 26thNigel Farage plots Nick Clegg’s downfall...

X
marks the spot

“UKIP is
going to win this election ― and yes, that will be an earthquake because
never before in the history of British politics has a party that will be
seen to be an insurgent party ever topped the polls in a national
election.” Nigel Farage, leader of UKIP, correctly forecasts the result of the
UK’s EU election, probably buoyed by private exit poll results prior to
yesterday’s count.

UKIP’s Richter-style performance in England and Wales
was repeated in Scotland, to a lesser extent, but gaining enough votes,
though, to install its Scottish candidate, David Coburn, in the European
Parliament.

Coburn then went on
to provide this smiley quote:

“Working
people are fed up with the Labour Party who talk a big game, and with
the SNP [Scottish National Party] who are just Edinburgh solicitors
doing the Highland fling and not worrying about anything that really
matters to ordinary people.”

When I next see Alex Salmond, leader of the SNP, all I will see is
Bagpuss.

Cool for cats

Personally, I identify with the 64% of the population who merely watched
the EU election from behind the sofa, through slightly parted fingers.
However, I am intrigued by the growing influence of UKIP aka Nigel
Farage.

Truth to tell, I am reminded of the
famous Mel Blanc song, I Taut I Taw a Puddy Tat. Sylvester, the
pesky cat, is of course Nigel Farage, and looking the part, may I say.

Tweety Pie could be Cameron, Clegg,
Miliband or indeed Salmond. And the lyrics of the song fit the current
situation to perfection. (Link coming up.)

Mind you, I do tend to think that
Boris Johnson is the real Tweety Pie, waiting to enter, Birdcage Walk
right. I mean, just ponder the ending of the song:

Sunday, May 25th
The cat that didn’t bark in the night
[spotted on 2flashgames.com]

Shadow boxing

WHAT a smiley work of art that
is; the cat that thinks it’s a royal corgi.

Talking of funny shadows: here’s
a photograph that went viral a little while back, the result of some
unfortunate lighting casting a shadow...

Benjamin Netanyahu – yes, it would have to be the Israeli PM –
casts
a shadow across Angela Merkel, the German Chancellor’s face

Oh dear, you could never plan such a thing. I guess? But it does appear
to be a
totally genuine photograph, untouched by Photoshop.

Talking of the German Chancellor, I’ve just spotted the
following headline and story:

Angela Merkel Loses Weight Without Turning to a
Fad Diet

Angela Merkel, the
German Chancellor, has made healthy changes to her lifestyle and has
lost a lot of weight, it is reported.

Rather than go all
out on an intense diet, Merkel has altered her diet in small, manageable
ways, and lost weight gradually.

She apparently
replaced biscuits served at meetings with carrot sticks, a healthy, low
calorie alternative.

The sausage and cheese sandwiches she was partial
to are now also a thing of the past. “She is very disciplined and eats a
lot more fruit” one of her colleagues was reported to say...

So, are you ahead of me already? C’mon
now, wake up at the back there. Remember this
smile of the day from last Thursday?

Jeremy
Paxman yesterday managed to stun the unembarrassable Silvio Berlusconi
by asking whether he really called Angela Merkel an ----

What’s coming
up has carried a bleep on the airwaves and asterisks in many print
versions ― but this is one instance where it is essential to go with the
uncensored version...

Jeremy
Paxman: “Do you have a particular problem with Angela Merkel? Is it true
you called her an
‘unfuckable lard-ass’?”

Silvio Berlusconi (after a
suitably startled pause for thought): “Yes, and I am glad to see that
she’s lost some weight at last.”

No, of course not, Berlusconi didn’t say that. In fact he insisted that “In
20 years of politics I have never insulted anyone.”

Actually, the incident was
featured on Friday night’s Have I Got News For You ― and the
exchange was played without any bleeps. I have no problem with that
because the incident had actually happened ― there is all the difference
in the world between that and simply swearing to generate a laugh.

But what was really amusing,
editor of Private Eye, Ian Hislop, one of the resident panelists,
listed the well-documented instances where Berlusconi had indeed
insulted people, especially fellow politicians.

To repeat myself: Bunga-bunga indeed.

Saturday, May 24th"Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade..."

Under the hawthorn
in the valley

THE Spring flowers and blossoms are reluctantly
taking their leave.

Last
Monday I featured the hawthorn tree encountered along my morning walk,
in particular it’s startling stand-out blossom, looking as if it had
been hit by a snowstorm.

Well, it’s been a wonderful year for the hawthorn. Last year, curiously,
despite it being an exceptionally good all-round year for all sorts of
blossom, the hawthorn was a huge disappointment, probably because it was
such a late spring.

This
year, however, it has been extravagantly showing-off all over the shop.
In my square mile there are so many hawthorns dotted here, there and
everywhere.

So
today, my smile is dedicated to the hawthorn blossom.

Featured at the top, something quite uncommon, in this part of the world
anyway: a red hawthorn. Along my morning walks I know of only two red
hawthorn trees.

Oh,
and I have planted one on the family farm, which is coming along nicely.

On
the Dinefwr Park & Castle estate, which I regularly navigate along my
morning stroll, there was one particular hedge where four red hawthorns
displayed their wares, but the National Trust bulldozed the hedge to
make one larger field ― the meadow that featured in the morning mist
picture from last Wednesday.

The
Trust may well have planted some replacements that I do not yet know
about. I’ll have to make some enquiries.

The
common or garden hawthorn, though, is particularly stunning when fully
dressed for the Towy Valley Spring Ball.

Every morning I am greeted by a line of hawthorns, and it really is a sight for sore eyes
when in bloom ― so hey presto...

But
best of all, as I walk past these trees, about a mile and more in front
of me, the other side of a tributary valley, where the ground rises
quite sharply, there’s a field awash with hawthorn trees ― and they
really are a captivating sight when in extravagant bloom, as this year...

The
photo directly above is taken from the right edge of the row of trees I
feature previously ― but what a sight.

Sadly, it only lasts but a short time.

However, it’s a
perfect view with which to kiss spring goodbye and embrace approaching summer...

SIR – Our village has been
plagued by three rogue peacocks since February.
Short of shooting them, can anyone suggest a way to get
rid of them? Marysia
Pudlo-Debef,
White Colne, Essex

Talk about not seeing the peacocks
for a peacocky name: Marysia Pudlo-Debef. Splendid.

Indeed, someone in the comment
section wondered aloud if the name was an anagram.

I expected some of the more witty
contributors to come up with some rather jolly suggestions ... but
nothing. Not a word. (Or should that be ‘toward no’?) Not a sniff. (Or
should that be ‘staff not in’?)

Not being a natural-born
anagramist(?)/anagrammer(?)/polysemantic(?) ― enough already ― anyway I
cheated and went online.

To start at the very beginning: I type ‘anagram’ into Google ― and up
comes ‘Did you mean: nag a ram’ [?]

Ho,
ho, ho, even I got that ― but I am invited to click on ‘nag a ram’ ...
which I do, and up comes Urban Dictionary...

Nag a ram:
It’s the response that Google gives when you type ‘Anagram’ and are
expecting a real definition. It’s a Google developer’s joke because it’s
just an anagram of the word anagram.

A
Google in-joke, eh? Go back to the ‘Go to work on an egg’ picture at the
top, and I have written ‘O Lion Egg Joke’.

That’s my little
joke. An anagram of ‘Google In-Joke’. What is probably known as a
double-yoke.

I also noted these
classic examples of anagrams for beginners:

The Morse code = here come dots
A decimal point = I’m a
dot in place
Astronomer = moon starer!
The eyes = they see
Punishment = nine thumps

How clever are those? Anyway, I click on an anagram
solver web site and enter ‘Marysia Pudlo-Debef’: it comes up
with ‘I Parade Myself’ and ‘Eduardo Bailey’ ― both very smiley, but both
have three letters unused. Boo, hiss.

So I
go for a more advanced programme...

Bingo, loads of suggestions ― and using up all the letters.

Given that the original letter from Marysia Pudlo-Debef was headlined
‘Foul plague’, I was amused to find:‘A Dab Eyed Foul Prism’.

I
also liked ‘A Dab Eyed Frump Silo’ and ‘A Bad Pilfered Mousy’.

So curiosity gets the better of me: I enter my own name, and up comes:
‘Buy Hen Now’, which is quite delightful given I was born and bred on a
farm, which did indeed rear chickens.

Amazing. So I add Llandeilo to my name ― and up comes ‘A Bellowed Unholy
Inn’.

Now that is
truly funny, given that I drink at the Asterisk Bar down at the Crazy
Horsepower Saloon, Dodgy City (occasionally Llandampness, depending on
which way the wind is blowing).

There really is a tide of innocent pleasures out there.

PS: There were some replies to the original letter from the delightful
Marysia Pudlo-Debef:

Rolling
out the red carpet for strutting invaders

The
pros and cons of having peacocks move to your village

SIR – We are rather
enjoying visits from the White Colne peacocks since they made a first,
enchanting appearance on Twelfth Night.
They brought joy and colour to dark winter days. Our Jack Russells are
less keen. Lucy Hopegood,
White Colne,
Essex

SIR – The peacocks of White Colne
can be permanently removed by building a wind farm in the village. The
Royal Society for the Protection of Birds has been quite happy to back a
wind farm near me, which will knock our bird-life out of the sky. E C Coleman, Bishop Norton, Lincolnshire

Hm. I also enjoyed this online comment from One Last Try:

“Rolling out the red
carpet for strutting invaders”: There was me
thinking The Daily Telegraph were going to allow a comments thread, on
immigration, from the EU and the rest of the world.

I’VE just watched a TV programme
billed as The Chelsea Flower Show. With its proliferation of concrete,
metal and wood, it might as well have been The Chelsea Builders Yard. At
least it doesn’t need weeding.PETER GASTON, Hawarden, Flintshire

As someone whose garden is a mass of daisies and dandelions ― but very
eye-catching ― I actually caught snatches of The Chelsea Flower Show on
telly, so the above letter in the Daily Mail raised a
spontaneous smile.

I knew precisely what Peter Gaston
was on about.

And of course, as a bonus, the letter
perfectly compliments the marvellous
MATT cartoon at the top,
especially so given the stark warning from the Bank of England about the
current property boom, particularly in places called Chelsea and
the like in Old
London Town. (Ah well, boom and bust all over again. Do we never learn?)

[Be all that as it may, one of the joys of Look You is juxtaposing stuff
from different newspapers. Meanwhile, on with the show...]

Bloomin’ ‘eck

“The Chelsea Flower Show
is a very English event. It will be even more English when the rain
starts.”Jeremy Dickson Paxman, 64, English broadcaster, journalist and
author, who has worked for the BBC since 1972 and is known for his
forthright and abrasive interviewing style, particularly when
interrogating politicians.

Hence the Jeremy Paxman nickname of Paxo, an
exceedingly prominent brand of British stuffing.

So here’s another Paxo quote ― and one that came
out of the bloom:

“Like many men I prefer
cutting things down and burning them than I do planting them.”
Jeremy joins up a few dots regarding his gardening technique.

No surprise then that
Paxo takes his work home with him. Imagine, in a parallel universe, Jeremy
is a logger chopping down our rain forests. Now there’s a thought:
Chopper Chopsey.

With much being made of Paxman’s imminent retirement from Newsnight and the BBC
(above), I’ve
never quite bought into this Paxo adoration thingy. I mean, he has spent
his life sitting in judgment on his fellow human beings, pointing out
how utterly useless they all are compared to himself.

Great value that he is with his
distinctive interviewing technique, he has contributed nothing of note to the
well-being of the nation ― despite calling all those politicians to
account, we still went to war in Iraq and Afghanistan; we still had that
massive banking collapse; and we’re experiencing yet another property boom
and bust cycle.

Worst, he has had no
effect whatsoever on the unravelling and disintegration of the BBC
itself.

True, he has added hugely to the
joy of the passing parade, but a fat lot of good he’s had at the
sharp end of things.

Yes okay, he’s written some books
and fronted some television programmes, but much of the success of those
would be down to his celebrity status anyway. (Did not footballer Wayne
Rooney pen a few bestsellers?)

Essentially, today’s movers and shakers remain as devoid of ethics,
morality and honesty as they did when Paxman conducted his first
interview. His celebrated style of interviewing is really no more than
publicly handing out a hundred lines.

And we all know from
our schooldays how useless those were.

Or am I missing something?

Mind you, there is a glorious plus side as Paxo comes to the end of his
run. Unencumbered by the fear that the great and the good might refuse
future interviews, he is now asking the questions he has clearly always
wanted to ask.

In doing so, he yesterday managed
to stun the unembarrassable Silvio Berlusconi by asking whether he
really called Angela Merkel an ----

What’s coming up carried a
bleep on the airwaves and asterisks in most print versions ― but this is
one instance where it is essential to go with the uncensored version...

Jeremy Paxman: “Do
you have a particular problem with Angela Merkel? Is it true you called
her an ‘unfuckable lard-ass’?”

Silvio Berlusconi
(after a suitably startled pause for thought): “No, I have never had any
problems with Angela Merkel. In 20 years of politics, I have never
insulted anyone.”

Bunga-bunga indeed.

Spell-cheque corner: ‘Chopsey’, as in someone with
a big mouth or suffering verbal diarrhoea, as in Jeremy Paxman, came up as ‘chop suey’, which
is certainly worth a mention in dispatches.

Wednesday, May 21st
What is this life if, full of care...

As
rich as you feel

“WHEN you wake up to
the sound of chirping birds, you are listening to one of the simplest
indicators of local environmental health.” Thus says Professor
Anantha Duraiappah, the Director of the UN University’s International
Human Dimensions Programme.

“Trees, a good night’s sleep, and being able to wash clothes in a
washing machine should be used alongside traditional GDP measures to
establish a country’s true worth. New research has begun to show that
people often value non-material wealth just as highly, if not more, than
monetary wealth.”

You
may remember those wise words from a couple of days back.

It
all came to mind first thing this morning ― it really was a
picture-perfect start to the day.

A
clear blue sky, an elegant stillness, a rising sun, and a typical sunrise
meadow mist covering the fields as I set out on my walk ― it is
all so beautiful, I
stop ... and capture a picture of it.

And
there it is, up there at the top...

As I
write this, it’s fifteen hours later, half-eight in the evening ― and
another gorgeous end of day (before the rain arrives overnight,
apparently).

But
the thing is, as I look out of the front window, the other side of the
road a field rises up quite sharply from behind a hedge ― before it
plateaus out and disappears from sight.

The
field is awash with lambs and sheep (newly sheared), and as I look, on
the skyline I see about ten lambs racing back and fore and dancing
wildly, the way lambs express their infectious joie de vivre.

But
what really captures my attention ― a few of the sheep are chasing
after the lambs ... back the lambs come, followed by the mothers in hot
pursuit.

I
watch one of the sheep. It doesn’t appear to be chasing after the kids
because it, well, feels young at heart ― but seems to be expressing concern at what
the lambs are up to and whether they are going to stay out of trouble and not
wander off out of sight.

I
know it sounds anthropomorphic ― but I can’t figure out what else the
curious body language is saying.

Anyway, it’s a joy to watch the lambs ― and we’re back again with that
“non-material wealth indicator”, the joyfulness that is present all
around us if we bother to look...

After taking the photo at the top,
and when I got to the other end of the fields I was crossing, I looked
back towards the very spot in the distance where I had taken the above
picture ― and took another...

What is this life if, full of care...

We have no time to stand and stare?

Tuesday, May 20th

Champagne Charlies

ALL last week I thoroughly enjoyed watching the Tour of California road
cycle race on Eurosport, an event which ended last Sunday at the splendidly named Thousand
Oaks, a city in south-eastern Ventura County.

It is not so much the cycling
events per se that grab my attention, but rather the geography lessons
provided by the helicopters that follow each stage of the race.

Be all that as it may, I noted that
the stage winners were presented with what looked like Magnums of wine,
rather than the traditional champagne.

Incidentally, can you imagine what motor racing, especially F1, would
look like if they produced finishes that come anywhere near the sheer
excitement of most cycling finishes?One for the road

While on the subject of champagne,
apparently yesterday, Vanessa Feltz visited the RHS Chelsea Flower Show, and on her
wireless show this morning she told of being approached by a lady who
asked her if she fancied “sabraging some champagne”.

She had no idea what it meant. She
duly learnt that “sabrage” is the technique of opening a champagne
bottle with a sabre. Unsurprisingly, she was somewhat startled to be
invited to do such a crazy thing.

She eventually did it. And to
perfection, it seems.

She explained how it was done ― but
it was rather difficult to picture it in one’s mind ― so I found a
fascinating YouTube clip to explain it all. So...

THERE I was, on an overcast and exceedingly dull early
morning, just a few days back, strolling across this field, minding my
own business ― well, sort of ― and there it was ... a hawthorn tree in full bloom.

It
stood out like a beacon. As if covered in snow.

The dreariness of
the morning added dramatically to its stand-out presence.

As soon as I read the above
headline and bullet points, I caught myself smiling ― I just intuitively
knew it was right. I read on...

Governments should look
beyond profits and economic growth to measure a country’s wealth and
take into account benefits which are less easy to measure, the UN has
claimed.

Trees, a good night’s sleep, and
being able to wash clothes in a washing machine, should be used alongside
traditional GDP measures, Professor Anantha Duraiappah said.

The Director of the UN
University’s International Human Dimensions Programme said MPs were
“missing some of the most meaningful and simple signs” of successful
countries.

He said the number of teenage
schoolgirls on a city street, as birds sing in the background, is an
important sign of a wealthy nation. In poorer countries young girls
are often forced out of education at a young age, while overcrowded and
polluted cities discourage wildlife.

“A crowd of teenaged schoolgirls
lining the streets of an African town is a rare sight. Fewer than one in
five girls in sub-Saharan Africa are able to attend secondary school.”

He continued: “New research has
begun to show that people often value non-material wealth just as
highly, if not more, than monetary wealth.

“When you wake up to the sound of
chirping birds, you are listening to one of the simplest indicators of
local environmental health.

“More sleep has been proven to
lead to better interpersonal relationships, emotional intelligence and
empathy toward others.”

At the moment, most countries
measure GDP to gauge the health of a country’s economy. This measures
the value of everything that Britain produces in a year.

But Prof Duraiappah believes that
other signs of a good life are just as important.

He suggests monitoring smiles,
random acts of kindness and access to lollipops, washing machines and
eye glasses. “Without glasses, school
kids miss out on their potential to learn, and adults are unable to make
the best of their most productive years.

“A man pulling his laundry from a
washing machine is more well-off than a big portion of the world
population ―
only 2 of 7 billion have access to a washer...”

Gosh, it does make you think ― for some reason I instantly thought
of the feelgood factor generated by the exceptionally well-run 2012 Olympics, and how
well the nation’s
athletes performed.

Mind you, and importantly so, for most of my adult life I have
appreciated how lucky I am to have been born in the right place at the
right time.

And just to prove it, here’s the
beautiful hawthorn tree featured at the top (on a dull morning),
captured just a couple of days later (during a picture perfect sunrise):

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough(where
sheep may safely graze)

Words are somehow inadequate to
describe the simple if admittedly transient joy this one little tree generates in
me.

Soon though, the blossom will be no
more ― it is already morphing into a gentle pink ― but there’ll be
plenty of other things lining up to grab my attention...

Sunday, May 18thSign Language: spotted
in Gibraltar by John Byrne

Doggy days

I’VE been agreeably entertained by a gallery of doolally photos showing pet
signs put up by owners and members of the public across the world. They
feature dogs, cats, birds and even spiders that are either lost of
found, as well as some more questionable looking creatures.

One sign shows a missing dog called
Klaus, which is described as being “very, very crazy” ― with an
increased hostility now that he is “off his medication”.

I particularly enjoyed these two from the canine world ― the first of a dog glaring at the
camera in a spectacularly unsettling way...

Down, boy!
Actually, all that is missing is a number across the bottom. As for the
second ― well, I appreciate that it’s an old joke,
and I did see a variation on the theme once: ‘HUSBAND AND DOG MISSING
FROM HOME’ etc, etc
― but like all good jokes it stands repetition, and it does boast an
inherent ability to generate a smile.

It all brought to mind a delightful
letter spotted in The Times:

No slobbering

Sir, You report that having a
friendly dog in shot is the best way for a man to present himself in a
photograph for online dating.
Just how friendly does the dog need to be?KEITH PADBURY, Duxford, Cambs.

Saturday, May 17th

Calf
ahoy!

SUNRISE, and I’m crossing the large field in front
of the big house ― the field where I witnessed yesterday’s newly-born
calf struggle to deliver its first stand-up routine, albeit to an
audience of one (mum excluded).

The
field is divided by a single wire fence (electrified), and I’m walking
along a track the other side of the wire to where the cattle are.

I
notice one of the cows also walking alongside the fence, calling out. I
recognise her as the one which gave birth yesterday ... but there is no sign of
the calf.

I’m
thinking perhaps it didn’t survive ― but I register that the cow keeps
looking over to my side of the fence and into the ungrazed, verdant
grass.

I
have a look ― and there it is...

As a
calf it would have easily sneaked under the single strand, waist-high
wire ― but high enough to discourage the cows ― and settled down in the
invitingly lush grass for the night. So I gee it up ― but it doesn’t
want to move. Is it okay?

Persistence pays off, though, and I guide it back under the wire to a
grateful mum.

And
they both head off away from me ― the calf looking particularly lively
and obviously quite healthy.

Wild
garlic hey presto

I continue my walk ― another stunning morning ... I notice that the
bluebells are fading fast. Except on the north facing slopes, where they
are still in full bloom.

I divert into the woods, where the
wild garlic is now everywhere. The scent is exceptionally powerful.
Here’s an image I captured just a couple of days back, on a misty early
morning...

What
a sight it is, the woodland floor a carpet of white ― with an
eye-catching border of bluebells. It’s a smashing image ... a haze of
blue above the white.

Currently, I divert this way every morning ― and why not?

Friday, May 16th

Drip
dry

05:30hrs ... A smashing morning, the sun is
just rising over the Cambrian mountains ― into a clear blue sky. As I
approach the entrance to Dinefwr Park, I notice ahead of me a fellow in
a hi-viz jacket.

He
is clearly a water board worker as he has one of those traditional
listening sticks they use for underground surveillance. He keeps putting
it to his ear at every stop-valve along the road and pavement.

We
close in on each other. “Top of the morning,” say I.

“Mornin’,” he says.

“Do
you know, I’ve always wanted to listen in on one of those things.”

“Sorry to disappoint you----“ My heart sinks as I expect him to add:
“Health and safety and all that, Chief ― can’t risk you making a claim
for damaged hearing.”

But
he says nothing of the sort. “You won’t hear anything because I haven’t
yet found the leak ― until I do there’s no sound at all, it’s all dead
quiet on the water front ― otherwise I’d oblige.”

“Ah
well,” I say, “that’ll have to stay unticked on my list of things to do
― without costing me any money ― before I officially go doolally.”

And we depart
company, smiling.

To the
Manor born

I
enter Dinefwr Park ― and it really is a delightful early morning.
Everything is picture perfect, with the birds furiously singing their
hearts out.

As I
pass Newton House, something in the field in front of the big house
catches my eye.

One
of the White Park cows has clearly just given birth. I pop over the
fence to investigate. The calf is still yellowish in colour from the membranes and
amniotic fluids associated with birth. Mum is just starting to lick the
calf clean.

I’m
actually looking into the rising sun, so decide to capture a few
pictures in silhouette.

I
spend about 45 minutes watching as mother and calf bond ... all the
while the calf struggles to get to its feet ― which is quite normal ―
and mum encourage it because that critical first feed beckons...

New dawn ... new birth

It is all quite
wonderful to observe. However, the whole process will take a little
while longer ... other cows come to investigate ... and quickly depart ―
unlike the newborn calf I featured last year over on
400 Smiles A Day,
where other cows encouraged the reluctant calf to get up and go to its
mother.

This one looks okay, though. The sun
keeps rising and the silhouette effect is lost ― so I decide to
continue along my morning walk...

Thursday, May 15th

Not flush

Sir, My somewhat tedious journey on
a Virgin train from London to Carlisle this week was considerably
enlivened by a visit to the bathroom facilities.
A bright female voice exhorted me not to put various
items down the loo, including “your mobile phone, old sweaters, hopes,
dreams and goldfish”.SHEILA GEWOLB, London NW8

Just yesterday I mentioned those wonderfully whimsical and off-beat wee
missives I trip over in the bargain basement of the Letters pages
of newspapers.

Just like the above, actually,
compliments of The Times.

A Cothi morning

Now here’s a
coincidentally funny thing: a most entertaining lady called Shân Cothi
recently started presenting a weekday morning magazine show called Bore
Cothi (Morning Cothi ― but sounds like Coffee) on the Welsh language station,
Radio Cymru.

Shân is a Welsh classical singer,
actress and presenter. She was born and raised the daughter of a
blacksmith in the tiny village of Ffarmers ― just up the road from
Llandampness...

Honestly, if a picture paints a
thousand words, there it is: she’s a dolphin, a pussycat, a sparrow, a
red squirrel ― all rolled into one.

Shân is, I guess, a Welsh version
of Vanessa Feltz. In other words, she is exceedingly amusing with her
friendly gossip and her smiley views on life, the universe, etc, etc...

On the show she plays lots of Welsh
music ― with a little bit of classical thrown in for good measure ― and
has fascinating, diverting and often hilarious conversations with Welsh
speaking people of interest.

Yesterday, the first guest on her
show was a thoroughly entertaining lady called Sue Wynne, who this
weekend is organising a blessing for pets at St Michael’s Church at
Betws yn Rhos in Conwy, North Wales.

Sue explained how people form
exceptionally strong bonds with their pets ― indeed Shân herself has a
horse called Caio (pronounced Ka-yo, not CA 10, as an American
visitor once did, which is the name of a village not far from her roots).

Anyway, the response in the area
has been exceptional ― but she has made sure that all the cats will be
down one side of the church, dogs the other. Oh, and there was one snake
expected, which was a bit of a problem because the minister who would
administer the blessing had a fear of snakes.

But I’ve jumped the gun. Before
Shân’s actual show, she made a quick appearance on the previous
programme,
hosted by a Dylan Jones. On the brief trailer for her own show, Shân
discussed the blessing feature: “Do you have any pets?” she asked Dylan.

“No, I don’t. Mind you, the kids do
have a couple of goldfish.”

“Well they could be blessed ― and I
have the perfect person coming on the show as a guest, Sue Wynne.”
There’s a momentary pause ... Shân continues. “Sue Wynne? Sewin?” Much
laughter, for ‘sewin’ is the Welsh word for sea trout.

Wonderfully witty. And see how the
above letter about goldfish down the loo reminded me of Shân and her
sewin.

Anyway, the letter that triggered
the above tale brought a response:

Off his trolley

Sir, Sheila Gewolb’s pleasant reminder of what not to flush down the loo
of a Virgin train reminds me of a train trip in Wales. The trolley
steward wandered down the carriage offering, among other items, “ice
creams, vipers noses and sea snake venom”.DAVID FINDLAY, Shrewsbury

Goodness, perhaps we Welsh are
closet cannibals.

Viper’s nose? That has to belong to
Mrs Ogmore Pritchard (think of the ghosts of her two husbands stifled by
her obsessive cleanliness).

Sea snake venom? That must be Mrs
Pugh, the wife of Mr Pugh the schoolteacher who continues to plot the
murder of his sour spouse.

Under Milk Wood lives. Round every
corner.

Spell-cheque corner: ‘Ogmore’, as in Mrs Ogmore
Pritchard of Under Milk Wood infamy, came up as ‘Gomorrah’. How funny.
The ghost of Dylan Thomas smiles.

Wednesday, May 14th

God’s searchlight

I CAN only presume that God was not
best pleased with my Knock-Knock joke from yesterday. (Although, I
suppose, his Son may well want me for a sunbeam.)

Whatever, along my early morning
walk I couldn’t help but notice the above astonishing ray of sunshine
breaking through the clouds and sweeping across the rising landscape in
front of me ― just like a hugely powerful searchlight.

I could hear God: “I’ll find you,
you little bugger ― making jokes at my expense...”

But it still made me smile though.

And now for something
completely different

I thoroughly enjoy the off-beat and humorous little missives that are
regularly tucked away at the bottom of the Letters pages of
publications like The Times, Daily Telegraph and Daily
Mail ― and of course the online comments that accompany such
letters.

For example, this letter from
The Daily Telegraph:

Short-lived

SIR – Short men live longer
(recent report)? Maybe, but I am 83 and once stood 6ft 6in. Now, if I
stretch out, I might be 6ft 4in. Perhaps we should conclude instead that
old men grow shorter. Maxwell Macfarlane,
Southborough, Kent

Very good. Then I read this very amusing online response from Augeanstables:

I am really, really interested in Maxwell Macfarlane’s varying height
as, over the past few weeks, in an attempt to pique the interest of The
Daily Telegraph letters’ editor, whimsy section, I have written on the
following subjects:

I know which one is Ant but I’m not sure which one is Dec. Do readers
have any advice?

Where exactly on
the cream continuum is Sainsbury’s “Soured fresh cream”? And how
relevant is the sell-by date?

Why does the German word
for butterfly sound so aggressive?

There were some online observations
on
this one. I’ve selected a couple ― these in response to a butterfly
flapping its wings in The Daily Telegraph comment
section...

Molamola:Why does the
German word for butterfly sound so aggressive?
I think ‘schmetterling’ has a pleasant, endearing quality to it, really.

Thatlldo:
The Dutch word ‘flinder’ is the best for describing a butterfly.

Back with Augeanstables and a nod to the UK’s political
landscape...

Who would win a 100m
sprint, Samantha Cameron, Miriam Clegg or Vince Cable? And should Nigel
Farage be excluded from the race?

Cleaning Panama
hats? Pish!
In my day we thought nothing of cleaning the Panama Canal before
breakfast. And then the Suez in the afternoon. And we still got change
from sixpence.

Why is the Countdown
anagram called a Conundrum? And do viewing figures rise along with
Rachel Riley’s skirt?

Is it possible to have a
3rd alternative in a dilemma?

Andrew Banks:
Is it possible to have a 3rd alternative in a dilemma?
No ― because then it is a tri-lemma.

Back on track...

If shepherd’s pie is made
with lamb and cottage pie with beef, can I be sure that my cottage
cheese is (not) halal?

I have a response to this one. At
least, I am thoroughly confused with all this halal business ― however,
Rod Liddle in The Sunday Times helped throw some light on
the subject:

What the halal?

It has been revealed that a large
proportion of the meat we buy in supermarkets, or in the chain burger
bars and pizzas joints, is halal ― that is, slaughtered according to the
correct Islamic procedure.

That means the beasts must have
their throats slit while they are still alive and some bloke has to read
out a verse from the Koran while some other bloke burns the Israeli flag
and 40 black-clad women ululate, or something.

Also, female lambs have to be
veiled and must be virgins. I think. I’m not absolutely sure on all the
details, but I hope you get the general point.

Yes Rod, I do. And a rather amusing
general point it is. Delivered with a wink and a quiet
prayer, I guess. Surely though, no one has the right to inflict cruelty
on animals, whatever their religious beliefs.

Meanwhile, back with
Augeanstables’ amusing list of ignored letters to The Daily
Telegraph:

Are rogue wasps responsible
for the dwindling bee population?

Which of these four
is really a 5’3”, greasy-haired trucker from Yorkshire: Jane O’Nions,
Naomi, Ann Farmer or Conchita Sausage? [Please, please, please let it
not be Naomi.]

The above is very much a
Telegraph in-joke: Jane O’Nions and Ann Farmer are forever
having letters published on rather serious subject matters. Naomi (O’Nions) is an amusing
online contributor. As for Conchita Sausage ― see recent smiles of the
day.

Is there really a joke
about Polish women and bowling balls? [I know there is but will anyone
else admit to knowing it?]

Yes there is ― and it’s rather
naughty. At least, if it’s the one I’m thinking of. And I guess it has
to be.

Meanwhile, back with England’s
upcoming World Cup footie adventure:

Which of the Coles would
you rather have seen in Brazil, Ashley, Cheryl or the Old King?

Why, oh why do you
no longer publish letters starting with “Why, oh why …?” or “Am I the
only one who …?”?
[And how many ?s do we really need?]

Since none of the above has been
published am I not sad enough or do I get out too much?

Very funny, Augeanstables.
Those really tickled the old smileometer.

Of course, the trouble with sending
letters to The Daily Telegraph ― and I speak as someone who
submits more than is good for me (and had a few published, mind) ― is that they receive about 700-plus missives a day ... and only some 20 get published.

“PROBABLY the biggest-selling, most unread book in the world.”
David Suchet, 68, English actor, on the Bible.

“A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, 72, might head
our bestsellers, but it is probably also the least read book on the
list.”The Sunday Times'
comment on the No. 1 on its 40 Years of Bestsellers list.

How ironic. Indeed, two book-end statements that
probably reflect the thinking of perhaps 80 per cent of humanity.

We may not believe in God in the
Bible sense, but we have more than a sneaky suspicion that there is much
more to it than everyone is letting on, and that the precise history of
time is currently beyond the grasp of the wit and wisdom of even the
cleverest and most honest of people.

As I have mentioned before, for
all I know, I am God, and this is all unfolding in my imagination.

And if you are reading this, then
perhaps you are God, and everything is being played out in your
imagination, indeed I am just a bit player in the play ‘wot you are
writing’.

How else do you explain the utter
doolallyness of the world we live in?

Some recent newspaper letters add
to the joy of this passing parade we happen to call The Universe.

This, in The Times, from
Fraser White
of Bunbury in Cheshire:

Making history

I’d be fascinated to know what other events Tom Whipple
had in mind when he suggested that the creation of the universe was only
“arguably the most significant moment in history”.

And then this, along similar lines, in The Sunday Times, from
Terry Slater
of Harlow in Essex:

Bang out of order

Regarding how the universe was
born (“The biggest bang”, News Review), will this knowledge stop wars,
house the homeless, feed the hungry or teach the illiterate to read?
Thought not.

But let’s get back to Planet
Earth, starting with the Goldilocks theory.

Just as Goldilocks
found the porridge that was just right, the Earth seems to be just right
for living creatures. The Earth seems to be the perfect distance from
the sun for lots of water. Not too hot. Not too cold.

Venus (pictured at the
top, along with Mars and Earth) is too close to the sun, and too hot for flowing water on its
surface. In fact, it is so hot that, like a sauna, all the water has
been evaporated into the atmosphere, and Venus has a thick and heavy
atmosphere.

Mars is too far from the sun, and
too cold for flowing water on its surface. Mars also has no continental
drift, so particles of the atmosphere which become trapped within the
ground stay trapped within the ground. Thus over time the atmosphere of
Mars has become thin, and all the water is frozen into the ground...

There were some letters in The Times about it, triggered by
an article by Matt Ridley about the Goldilocks theory:

Goldilocks effect: almighty fluke or just the Almighty?

Here is part of a letter from Professor Anthony Briggs
of Stoppers Hill in Wiltshire:

Everything is more complex and
incomprehensible than we thought ... the likelihood that ultimate truth
is unknowable to us...
Meanwhile, we are left with the only certainty: for no
obvious reason, existence exists. It is so wonderful an idea that one
can readily understand the religious principle of awe and gratitude that
things should be so.
Our tiny universe, far from being a random occurrence,
is likely to be an inevitable product of infinite creativity, many times
replicated elsewhere.
There are surely more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in Matt Ridley’s anthropocentric and algorithmic
philosophy, and this is what we should be telling our children.

Then this from David Levy
of London N3:

How many more “lucky coincidences” would it
take to convince Matt Ridley that Earth was deliberately created by a
Supreme Being in such a way that mankind can survive here, alone in the
universe.
To recognise these “almighty flukes” but not to see the
hand of the Almighty behind them takes rationality to rational extremes!

And finally this, from Peter Lindahl
of Castle Donington in Leicestershire:

Matt Ridley’s conclusion that the earth must have
been created by coincidence reminded me that Albert Einstein once said
“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous”.

Wonderful quote ― and we’re back with the idea that I am God. Or perhaps
that you are God. Indeed, I recently heard this on Alex Lester’s
early-morning wireless show:

All matter is just energy reduced to
slow vibration. That we are all a collective consciousness existing only
in the imagination of each other...

A wonderfully thoughtful
philosophical point on which to end ― and if I am God, then I though of
it, so 10/10 to me ― but best of all, proof that the smiles of the day come
in all shapes and sizes..

YESTERDAY, I smiled at a gem of a throwaway line heard on the wireless.
Well, by coincidence...

Just the other morning, a
mature-sounding lady ― she may well have been a teacher ― recalled a
time when she and a friend jumped in her car and set off for nowhere in
particular ... she was simply celebrating the sheer joy at age 18 of her
first journey in her first car.

Every time they came to a junction
they flipped a coin. Heads left, tails right.

They kept going round in strange
figures of eight, ending up, as it happened, somewhere quite near her home ―
the very spot from where she had begun her personal journey into space.

It had all been a great adventure.
And lots of fun.

And I believe her. Indeed, I was
with her and her friend in the car. (She didn’t say, but I bet it was a
Mini.)

So, sticking with driving, a letter
in The Times:

Reversal

Sir, When I reverse my car with no
one watching it goes perfectly. However, when another driver fixes me
with a stare and an “it’s up to you” expression, I seem to lose my
skills.
Recently, I had to reverse down a single-track country
lane with a ditch on either side. I really made a pig’s ear of it. The
other driver did wave and smile as he sailed past.
Perhaps I am what is known as a “dipstick”.GRETA WARD, Hayling Island, Hants

I know precisely what Greta means. Mind you, I have no problem reversing
down narrow country roads ― it’s something you need to do all the time
living out here in the sticks of Welsh Wales ― but I do suffer the
“dipstick” problem when having to reverse into a parallel roadside
parking space.

Yet I can deliver it with aplomb
when no one is watching.

Remember Reginald Molehusband?

Reggie featured in a memorable Public
Information Film from the Sixties, showing us how to reverse our car
into a parking space. Sadly, it seems the original film of Reginald
parking his Austin 1100 has been lost ― but the script survived:

Molehill becomes Everest

This is the story of Reginald Molehusband, married, two
children, whose reverse parking was a public danger.

People came from miles just to see it. Bets were laid on his
performance. What he managed to miss at the back, he was sure to make up
for at the front. Bus drivers and taxis changed their routes to avoid
him.

Until the day that Reginald Molehusband did it right. Not too close, far
enough forward ... come on Reggie ... and reverse in slowly ... come on
... and watching traffic ... and park perfectly!

Well done Reginald
Molehusband, the safest parker in town. [Loud applause from the gathered
crowds watching the proceedings.]

Wonderful. I can
still see it in my mind’s eye. So simple. So funny.

More
strange directions

Yesterday, I also smiled at the fellow with a beard who wears a frock
and won the Eurovision Song Contest, one Conchita Wurst.

What
has given the whole thing an extra and joyful layer of farce is the news
today that the whole shebang drove Vladimir Putin bananas. Well done,
old girl.

I
say “Well done, old girl” ― however, this headline appeared in
Telegraph Online, tonight:

Conchita
Wurst is a man. So why is everyone referring to him as 'she'?

So asks columnist Brendan O’Neill. A fair question.
He starts thus:

I know that the only acceptable
response to Conchita Wurst’s victory at the Eurovision Song Contest is
to gush about how grown-up Europe has become and to intimate that we
haven’t witnessed such a revolutionary shift in European attitudes since
those sans-culottes
stormed the Bastille.

But I’m going to be a party pooper and ask an awkward question: why,
given Conchita is a man, is everyone referring to him as “she”?

The bending of gender speaks to today’s speedily spreading cult of
relativism. We live in such relativistic times, in an era so hostile to
the idea that there are measurable truths or concrete realities, that it
seems we can no longer even speak of “men” and “women”.

There’s no such thing, apparently. There’s just a gender spectrum and
you can choose where you feel you fit into it.

The most concrete categories in
human history ― man and woman ― have quietly died at the narcissistic
altar of allowing everyone to choose his/her/nether’s gender identity...

Now you know me and my brain: the ‘seeing part’ operates a split-second
ahead of the ‘make sense’ part ― so I often read things incorrectly
before the brain catches up and corrects.

Incidentally,
‘nether region’ is defined thus: Hell, the Underworld, or
any place of darkness or eternal suffering; Subterranean (geography);
Euphemism or slang for the groin or sexual parts of the human body...

A bit of subliminal thinking
on my part there, methinks. Anyway, never mind all that, I actually answered
the very question posed by Brendan O’Neill, yesterday. Remember?

Richard was discussing
last night’s Eurovision Song Contest, in particular the bearded lady, in
a frock, who won – and it seems, by general consent, that heeshee looked
sexier than most women, without a beard, in a frock.

[Hm, did I get that right? What
do you call a fellow with a beard, dressed in a frock? A heeshee?]

Perfect. In fact, I’ve
just shot off a brief missive to the Daily Mail'sStraight to the POINT column:

New
Spice

The world ponders why a bloke with a beard in a frock is called a “she”.
Down at my local Crazy Horsepower Saloon, Conchita Wurst ― an amusing
little cocktail sausage on a stick ― is called a “heeshee”. Perfect ―
and it rolls off the tongue.

HB of Llandampness

Spell-cheque
corner:
I was disappointed that the computer actually knew what “sans-culottes”
meant. So out chuffed Ivor the Search Engine ― and off he went...

In the French Revolution, the
sans-culottes were the radical left-wing partisans of the
lower classes; typically urban labourers, which dominated France.

There you go, every day a day on the front line.

PS: For some reason I don’t quite understand, the computer
suddenly decided to challenge ‘cheque’. As in ‘spell-cheque’. It
suggested ‘spell-cherub’ ... followed by ‘spell-coequal’ ... followed by
‘spell-toque’ ... followed by ‘spell-chouse’ (to cheat, trick, defraud ―
followed by of, or out of; as ― to chouse one out of his money).

I
must go and lie down, etc, etc...

Sunday, May 11th♬♪
Notes from a delightfully doolally planet

Hey, Conchita, come queek

“THERE are so many countries in Europe now ― whether
they want to be or not.”The smiley throwaway line that greeted
me first thing this morning, as delivered by Radio 2 presenter
Richard Allinson.

Richard was
discussing last night’s Eurovision Song Contest, in particular
the bearded lady, in a frock, who won ― pictured above ― and it seems,
by general consent, heeshee looked sexier than most women (without
a beard) in a frock.

[Hm, did I get that right? What
do you call a fellow with a beard, dressed in a frock? A heeshee?]

Yes, it was a win for Austria’s
drag queen, Conchita Wurst, also known as Tom Neuwirth. Hm, now known as Tom
Worthalot, I’d warrant.

Last night, as it happens, I did
catch a handful of the performances, and the bearded lady was one of
them. And I have to say, heeshee did make me smile.

Be all that as it may, on this morning’s wireless show, Richard read out
a comment about the song contest from a
Helena Hancarte.

Lol, as they say in online drag.

Now that name did make me laugh out loud, and it certainly rates up there with
the most memorable and/or funniest online user names I’ve spotted since
humanity began its stumble through electronic time.

Talking of risqué, I particularly enjoyed this tale with a twist in its
tail:

Push, push

A little girl wants to walk her dog, but
her father says that she can’t because the dog is in heat. After a few
“But dad!”
objections, he finally relents and says: “Well, I guess, if we pour a
little petrol on the dog’s rear end it will kill the scent.”

So he does. Half an hour later, the girl returns.
The father says: “Where’s the dog?” The girl replies: “She ran out of
petrol on the outskirts of town, and a helpful dog is pushing her home.”

When I first heard that story, and the father says “Well, I guess, if we
pour---“ ― I thought he was going to say “...if we pour lots of water
over her we’ll get our retaliation in first!”.

Spell-cheque corner: ‘heeshee’, as in the
word for a bearded fellow dressed in a frock, came up as ‘hee hee’ ―
very amusing.

And ‘Neuwirth’, as in heeshee’s
proper name, came up as
‘Neolith’. Which is again funny given that the Neolithic Age was also
known as the New Stone Age ― or should that be the No Balls Age?

Say nothing is best (again).

Saturday, May 10th

Chemistry after class

Headline of the day (reproduced with mixed feelings):

Headmaster
Graham Daniels, 50, and chemistry teacher Bethan Bale, 36, suspended
over an alleged camera-phone ‘sex tape’ recorded by pupils at their
school

The 30-second camera-phone video
at Bryn Tawe School in Swansea, and posted online, features the sound of
moans and panting apparently coming from behind a closed school office
door.

Both headmaster and teacher are
being investigated over allegations of sex sessions, etc, etc...

Rear-view mirror

Last month I shared with you a few
lines from a wireless show called Siadwel,
all about the oddball thoughts of a geeky bedsit poet who wears an
anorak and glasses.

Siadwel
has of course turned being a loser into an art form. In this brief
quote, he is looking back at his youth, in particular his time in
school. I quote:

“It wasn’t a posh school with a
difficult entrance exam or anything. No, no, the only entrance exam at
our school was, if you can open the door, you’re in. Although I did fail
that at my first attempt.

“They were very strong on
discipline though. Everybody was caned. Even the teachers...”

Back with the suspended teachers, Dai Version, down at the Crazy
Horsepower, wondered if, actually, all the moaning and groaning was down
to the headmaster giving his chemistry teacher “six of the best”.

Ho, ho, ho, indeed.

At the top, I indicated ‘Headline of the day (reproduced with mixed
feelings)’.

Well, this tale covers all the
bases.

As Chief Wise Owl pointed out
following the Dai Version view of the event, this story satisfies our insatiable need
for juicy gossip, as well as the irresistible necessity to make jokes to
match ― yet on the other hand, there can’t be many who won’t feel
extreme sympathy for these two unfortunate teachers.

There will be families involved on
both sides ― indeed, more than likely children as well.

Chief Wise Owl is spot on. I really do feel so sorry for all
of them.

But perhaps most telling of all is
the fact that over just one generation, we have gone from a time when
children had respect for their teachers ― to a time when children can
bring down their teachers with a simple bit of electronic wizardry.

And perhaps, to add insult to
injury, the two teachers are probably good at their jobs and liked by
their pupils.

SIR – I have recently bought a new
pair of cricket whites. The trousers have a label attached which reads:
“Mould prevention germ proofing. Do not eat.”
I have endured some pretty indifferent teas over many
years of provincial cricket, but even I would draw the line at eating my
own trousers. Julian Todd, Frinton-on-Sea, Essex

The above, compliments of The Daily TelegraphLetters
page. Imagine though, if that label had been spotted inside a hat: “Do
not eat!”
As in: “If England win the footie World Cup, I’ll eat my hat.”

By a curious coincidence, this letter appeared today:

(Clean) old hat

SIR – How does one clean a Panama
hat without reducing it to pulp? Alan J Watson,
Cayton, North Yorkshire

These online comments tickled the
old smileometer...

JDavidJ: Re cleaning
the Panama hat ― perhaps it could be brushed gently, sponged with water
and a mild detergent (whatever ‘mild’ means in this context), or washed
in petrol.

Assymetric: First, blow off any dust
from the inside (you could use a leaf blower); then, as you suggest, use
some volatile liquid (petrol, meths etc.) by pouring it (gently) into
the inside and allowing it to run through, then allow to dry. When dry,
you could then pour water through it to wash out the petrol/meths.
Attempts to use a cloth will probably embed any dust
making it virtually impossible to get out. After a time, you’ll get used
to the remaining smell of the petrol/meths.
BTW, this is all theoretical since I’ve not attempted
it on mine.

Peddytheviking: I should have thought the answer is to buy one
woven out of plastic fibre. Then it could go through the gentle wash
programme (no spin).

Hm, a plastic Panama: that would be quite a sweat-inducing thing to
plonk on your head. Never mind a Panama, perhaps Peddy should recommend
one of these, a Scania:

Sticking with giving things a good
going over, another Telegraph special:

Well, I’ll give the makers the benefit of the doubt and take it that
they are actually referring to the filters. But you never know in theses
days of whine and doolallyness.

Thursday, May 8th

Why TV viewers use subtitles▪It's a foreign film▪I'm a bit hard of
hearing▪I want
to watch Jamaica
Inn on the BBC

You
what?

Before I get to the BBC’s new drama
series, Jamaica Inn, this delightful letter in The Times...

Defibrillator

Sir, On Friday’s TV London news,
in an item about heart attacks, there appeared the subtitle: “The only
way to bring someone back to life is to use a decent beer later.”J ANTHONY C MARTIN, London SW18

Follow that, as they say in the Asterisk Bar down at the Crazy
Horsepower Saloon.

Okay, Jamaica Inn.

But first, for those in faraway places with strange
sounding names i.e. Llanllwchaiarn ― Jamaica Inn is a novel
by English writer Daphne du Maurier, an eerie period piece set in
Cornwall in 1820, about a group of murderous wreckers who run ships
aground, kill the sailors and steal the cargo.

In modern terms, they would be called bankers.

Anyway, the BBC’s new adaptation proved a ratings
disaster. During the showing of the first episode it lost 1.6 million
viewers ― a quarter of its audience ― and prompted some 800 complaints
following the mumbled dialogue which made it so difficult to follow.

Inn-comprehensible was the meeja’s favourite word
to describe the fiasco.

Here are a selection of comments from
both The Times
and The Sunday Times:

The BBC drama Jamaica Inn had bad reviews, was
criticised for terrible sound, had actors that mumble, and has been
reported in all the news channels and the major newspapers in a negative
way.
As Ian Fletcher from the fabulous W1A [a mockumentary
where the BBC does a bit of self-mocking navel gazing] would say: “It’s
all good then.”Chris Nott

First Shetland, now Jamaica Inn. We could hardly
understand a word.John Taverner

I didn’t think I would be moved to write, but I
feel let down by the BBC, yet again. Shetland was bad enough, but
Jamaica Inn was even worse. My viewing was made worse by my husband
moaning, tutting and sighing.Pamela Taylor

Classic last sentence, Pamela. Meanwhile, on with the show...

I couldn’t decipher a word, drowned out by the
so-called background music.Peter Morton

The best bit of Jamaica Inn? No Routemaster
buses.Jo-Ann Rogers

Unlike many others I had no problem in
understanding the dialogue in Jamaica Inn. However, the reference to a
Routemaster bus did come as something of a surprise.David Webb

LOL!
And Double LOL!
What else can I add? This, perhaps:

Oh dear, oh dear. The mail coach portrayed in the
first instalment of Jamaica Inn was patently obviously a Mark 3,
four-horsepower Routemaster, which was not introduced on the Bodmin run
until 1828.
Can’t the BBC get anything right?Fred Forshaw

Brilliant, Fred Forshaw ― with a name like
that you obviously saw the whole flotsam and jetsam thing coming.

As
you may well have deduced, I really enjoy such silly comments.

However, I’ve submitted my own
response to The Sunday TimesYou say
column. You see, I think I’ve discovered where the BBC has been going
wrong these last few years:

Empathy ― lack of

Jamaica Inn? Jamaica Out, more like. I was one of the
original 1.5m or so who made their excuses and left.
In the first Points Of View following the
series, the fellow in charge of production was hauled to account.
Honestly, he was hardly out of nappies. We should not therefore be
surprised that the BBC has as much empathy with its middle-age-plus
audience as an amoeba has with a dolphin.

Incidentally, have you noticed that when commercials come on (or programme
trailers on the BBC), not only is the lighting just perfect, but
every word is crystal clear? How odd.

Wednesday, May 7th
Dunn & Dusted
From tastes of the unexpected...

...to tales of the
unexpected

Headline of the day:

Artist who tied rooster to penis guilty of sexual exhibition

A South African artist who tied a
live rooster to his penis in the name of “performance art” [it sort of grows on you] has been
found guilty of sexual exhibitionism.

Last September, Steven Cohen, 51,
appeared without warning in the Trocadero Plaza and paraded in front of
the Eiffel Tower, together with the farmyard bird, in a performance entitled
“Wotcher Coq/Cock”. [I tell a lie: it was entitled simply “Coq/Cock” ...
they do not use early Middle Ages English in either South Africa or France.]

Cohen was dressed in platform
heels, a corset, elbow-length red gloves, feathers on his fingers, an
elaborate feathered headdress made of a stuffed pheasant ― and tethered
the cockerel to himself with a ribbon.

Little Red Coq a Vignette

A classic case of nominative determinism? Steven Cohen?

Against a backdrop of the Eiffel
Tower, and under the perplexed gaze of tourists, including a group of
nuns ― wouldn’t it be lov-erly to know what went through their minds as
they politely averted their gaze, well, apart from one or two? ― Cohen
danced for only a few moments before police pounced, dragging him across
the plaza, rooster still attached.

He accused them of having “no
understanding of what art is”, and now he can feel vindicated, for
despite being convicted of “sexual exhibitionism”, he walked away from a
Paris court a free man.

The court confirmed that no
complaint had been filed against him ― not even by the nuns ― and that
he had not engaged in sexual acts.

Cohen said the rooster, named
Franck, was not harmed during the performance of his “powerful political
statement”. Oh, and the cock was chosen “because it’s the emblem of
France”.

His lawyer said she was
“relieved”.

“This is a rather measured
decision,” said lawyer Agnès Tricoire, warming to her ho-ho-ho task. “In
my opinion, this case should never have gone to court.”

Steven Cohen told the newspaper
that the Paris piece was a reaction to an increasingly homophobic,
xenophobic and anti-Semitic world.

Nearly a full house there, Steven. Anyway, a couple of online comments
tickled the old smileometer no end:

Alyn of Neath:
Apparently, according to people that saw him it was beautiful and
graceful. They said it was poultry in motion.

Kevin of Newcastle: I was there. It was pretty fowl, actually.

I sort of imagine the scene straight out of a Carry On film. One
of the passing nuns is Joan Sims, and she approaches Cohen: “My, what a
rousing cock-a-doodle-doo you’ve got there.”

Oh dear, I remember Joan as Belle,
the sharp-shooting saloon queen in Carry On Cowboy, when she
confronts Sid James, the Rumpo Kid, in the bar, glances down as he hands
her his gun, and declares: “My, but you’ve got a big one.”

And the Rumpo Kid responds: “I’m
from Texas, ma’am, we’ve all got big ones down there.”

Yes, it’s all in the mind. And not an obscenity in sight.

Tuesday, May 6thWho loves ya, baby?

Famous royal plays second fiddle

I RECENTLY quoted two rather amusing letters apropos the lady wot
features in today’s top spot.

The first missive appeared in
The Times, when Kate, William and Georgie Porgie visited New Zealand
and Australia, in particular following the one official day they had
off, and a reader noted: “Wednesday’s paper did not have a photograph of
the Duchess of Cambridge. I do hope she is all right.”

And then, just the other day, in
The Daily Telegraph, a reader remarked: “No wonder Harry and
Cressida broke up. What girl would play second fiddle for the rest of
her life to you know who?”

Both exceedingly smiley efforts.

Anyway, during the royal visit Down
Under, Kate posed for thousands of photographs and looked picture
perfect in pretty much every one.

But there was one image from the
three-week tour that particularly captured Kate’s heart.

Unsurprisingly, it features a very
cuddly looking Prince George. It was presented to her, in a black and
white format (curiously), by the photographer Simon Woolf.

I only ever saw the coloured
version in the media, but curiosity did get the better of me, so I did a
simple ‘greyscale’ conversion...

Obviously the quality, sharpness, intensity and depth of the original
would be far removed from the one I feature, above ― but, I’m not sure whether in
this instance I’d prefer black and white over colour. And I enjoy
looking at black and white photographs.

But here’s the thing: yesterday I smiled at this year’s abundant crop of
dandelions.

And of course the flowers are now
rapidly turning to seed. I captured a photo along my early
morning walk of a dandelion flower slowly opening to the rising sun ― next door to one
that has already turned to seed...

The image made me think of
the one of Kate and young George.

Kate is obviously the flower ―
obviously ― and George is the fluffy, delicate looking seed waiting to
drift away on the breeze, as all children do, eventually...

In the years ahead, Britain will
probably come to see George as a bit of a dandelion in the nation’s
flower meadow.

Around 70 per cent of the
population will see him as a handsome creature decorating the passing
parade and born to draw all the honey bees ― while the other 30 per cent or so
will see him as a weed that must be eradicated at all costs.

C'est la vie!
(Well, we are today celebrating 20 years of the Channel Tunnel.)

Before I go, have you ever wondered about the transformation of the
dandelion flower into those delicate and beautiful seed heads?

You must watch this wonderfully
shot short film of such a profound metamorphosis. Amazing.

SIR – The dandelion season is here; and much to the chagrin of lawn
lovers, this vigorous plant continues to flourish. The
dandelion is the honey bees’ spring saviour, as each flower contains at
least 120 florets containing valuable nectar ― a one-stop filler for
each honey bee.
For their sake, homeowners and councils should resist
the urge to mow their lawns, verges and recreation spaces too early.Commander Alan York RN (retd),
Sheffield, South Yorkshire

The above letter is from The
Daily Telegraph. The photograph at the top, though, is one I took when
I was living in the cottage on the farm: the bee really was tucking in
with all its might.

But here’s the thing. Yesterday I
featured a photo of the two distinctive sheep I’d encountered along my
morning walk.

Coming up is a picture I took just
a few days ago...

As you enter Dinefwr Park & Castle
― from the direction of the town that is ― you immediately walk through quite a large
field, which the National Trust is slowly ‘converting’ back to being a
traditional flower meadow.

It is quite a lengthy process,
which will take many years. The field hosts no stock. Just a couple of
crops of hay (or silage) are taken off each year.

Some years though it’s plastered
with dandelions ― and this year is one.

The other day I shared with you the
glorious trail through the bluebell wood. Well, here’s the path through
the dandelion field...

What a glorious sight that is, with
all the trees coming into leaf framing it just perfectly. And as
the Good Commander (retd) in his letter, above, points out, the honey
bees are addicted to the dandelion.

Indeed, they were all over the
shop, furiously feasting on the goodies.

They do say that a good walk in the countryside lifts the spirits.

Who am I to argue?

Sunday, May 4th
A sisterly combo

♫♥♫♥♫♥♫♥♫♥♫♥♫

Sisters,
Sisters,
There were never such devoted sisters.
Never had to have a chaperone, no sir;
I need to keep my eye on her.

Caring,
sharing,
Every little thing that we are wearing.
When a certain Rambo arrived from Rome,
She wore the dress and I stayed home.

All kinds
of weather, we cling together,
The same in the rain and sun;
Two different faces, but in tight places,
We think and we act as one.

Those
who’ve seen us,
Say that not a thing could come between us.
Many rams have tried to split us up,
But no-one can, nobody can.

Lord
bless the Rambo,
Who comes between me and my combo;
And Lord help the sister,
Who comes between me,
Me, Me, Me
And my boyo!

With apologies to the
Beverley Sisters (and Irving Berlin).

I spy with my little eye

THE moment I noticed the above combo
watching me intensely as I crossed the field ― well, how could I resist taking
their picture and slightly paraphrasing the famous Beverley Sisters song to taste.

What a smashingly
smiley photo though (it’s
those ears, of course).

Talking of sisters, this letter,
spotted in The Daily Telegraph, fits the bill just perfectly...

Second fiddle

SIR – No wonder Harry and Cressida
broke up. What girl would play second fiddle for the rest of her life to
you know who? David Silber, Upton upon Severn, Worcestershire

Excellent.

Saturday, May 3rd

Alice in Potholeland
“Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!”
Alice follows him down the pothole...

When you find yourself in a hole

IT ALL kicked off last Friday, with
that basic test to see how many common or garden road signs we motorists
could identify ― with a few alternative explanations thrown in for good
measure.

Then yesterday, Look You
featured a brace of alternative road signs suitable for today’s
motorist, as designed by a group of imaginative London cabbies.

Well, it seems that it’s not only
here in the UK that potholes are an ever growing menace ― it apparently
frustrates motorists all over the world.

So much so there’s an amusing
website, My Potholes, dedicated to the phenomenon (link coming up
down below).

The picture at the top, of Alice
following the wascally white wabbit down a likely-looking pothole, is
from Canada, and a typical example of the work of Canadians Claudia
Ficca and Davide Luciano.

However, and amusing as Alice and
her pothole is, truth is forever stranger
than fiction.

Here’s a marvellous tale that
surfaced here in the UK, back in March, following our winter of
discontent ― or rather, our winter of rampant storms:

Is this
Britain’s biggest pothole? Cavernous 6ft wide hole nicknamed ‘the
swimming pool’
opens up in Devon ... and council’s own investigations have made it
worse

Three coins in the pothole ... all contributions welcome

One in a hole

Residents in a Devon village claim
they have the biggest pothole in the country.

Back in February, storms caused the
underlying hardcore to be forced up through the tarmac ― but the
unclassified road remained perfectly passable, with care.

But then Devon County Council
workmen dug a larger hole to investigate the problem ― and yes, it grew
and grew and grew ― resulting in the road, between Crediton and
Newbuildings (yes, there really is a place called Newbuildings), having to be closed.

And the council said it did not
have the cash to repair the hole until the next financial year, at the
earliest.

Fortunately, that was just over the horizon.

So April was pencilled in as a
likely date for the work to be done ― in the meantime some 300 vehicles
a day, including school buses and milk lorries, had to be diverted
through a series of quiet lanes and tranquil villages.

Especially so as the actual HAM / SANDWICH part
of the signpost has been given an immaculate spring clean.

There
again, the other signpost doesn’t say DEAL / OR NO DEAL, which
gives the whole thing an air of credibility.

So I got out my RAC Road Atlas ― yep, sometimes a
traditional map beats an online one hands down ― so let us have a peep
... yes indeed: Ham is a hamlet near the town of Sandwich
in Kent. (And it would have to be a hamlet.) Also, the distances
involved make sense.

What is more, I spotted four other places called Ham:
a tithing (the term implies a grouping of ten households) in Berkley, a
civil parish in Gloucestershire; also, a suburban district in south-west
London; and, a village in the Caithness region in the Scottish council area
of Highland; finally, a village and civil parish in the county of Wiltshire.

But there’s only one Sandwich. BLT.

Anyway, sharing the above amusing signpost diversion ― I
wonder how many pictures have been taken of that sign? ― was triggered
by yesterday’s piece about road signs.

Apparently, cabbies in London have come up with a range
of new road signs to reflect motoring in modern Britain, especially so
in Old London Town.

But first, a couple of letters spotted in The Daily
Telegraph.

This appeared towards the end of
2013, following the Autumn Statement by Chancellor George Osborne:

Hole in one

SIR – I am delighted to see that there will be billions
invested in infrastructure but I have a question: when will the potholes
in my road be filled? David Thorne, Knighton, Radnorshire

Followed by this missive:

Dangerous driving

SIR – Yesterday I narrowly missed a pothole in a speed
bump. Is this a first?Peter Scott, New Milton, Hampshire

Which in turn drew this online comment...

Chezz: “Yesterday I
narrowly missed a pothole in a speed bump. Is this a first?” It might
be, Mr Scott. It depends on whether you have ever narrowly missed a
pothole in a speed bump before. Only you will know.

Okay,
new signs: first up, a reflection of the nation’s pothole-scarred
streets and highways...

Very good. And many a motorist will empathise with its
message.

The second road sign is to do with the on-going battle
on our roads between motorists and cyclists. Forever bitter, and
sometimes fatal...

As I’m about to watch Live
Cycling: Tour of Turkey on Eurosport ― it seems like a
perfect place to call it a day.

Thursday, May 1st

The Highway Codicil

THIS, spotted in Mail Online...

A third of motorists are so clueless about road signs they don’t even
know
what the national speed limit symbol is ... so how will you get on?

Test yourself
with our road quiz, below

A survey of 2,000 drivers by car
insurers More Than found widespread ignorance of safety
warnings and speed limits ― and revealed that many people ignored the
laws on speeding, even when they did understand.

Drivers mistook ‘slippery road’
signs and weren’t able to tell when they were being warned of the road
narrowing ― so we’ve compiled some of the most-mistaken signs for you to
test yourself...

I surprised myself by scoring 8/10.
A few of them, to be honest, were educated guesses ― but I had no idea
what numbers 6 and 10 were.